Malibu Bay Breeze can fuck right off. What are we, 12? I reject these teenage notions because they are embarrassing admissions and hangers-on of total and utter immaturity. Figuring out a new way, figuring out a new path. Wind whips my face as I curse this drink. It feels nice and I will have a beer instead, probably. These days I’d much rather have anything that refined sweetness. No, that is not what life is about nor was it ever about. And I don’t know the right answer. A hermit crab gets blow off course in its search for a new shell. Hurricane season during home shopping. Call the realtor. I want to quench and melt my uptight bullshit and replace with more breezy nature. Why can’t I be more carefree? Stuck in the mud with a stick, hardening clay around my bottom and ankles, so I’ll be stuck here. Call the museum. Put a trash bag over me and transport me elsewhere. I won’t even talk, but stay stock still.

Invisible wind careless to who it heals are harms. Arbitrary wind, in all directions, making my hair stand up. Hot soup gets cold by the breeze from my mouth. Blowing on the spoon, craving salt. To hike and stand at the precipice, finally free until the car comes ’round. Mild salsa donut harboring victim Lemon Yellow Black Kerouac. What can do to be more like Jawbreaker? More like Blake? How do I stand on the shoulders of giants? How can I approach and climb up and perhaps understand greatness from their height? I am tired and need of coffee and carb. I feel as though I am giving up, but I know I must not seeing it as given up. I am recontextualizing myself and my routine. But goddamn it if I don’t feel depressed about it. Like I lost, like some Loser Year. Cheap Trick and Pinhead Gunpowder. Was I ever who I said I was? Almost seems like someone else’s life, someone else’s memories. Why do I have to be such an Android about it? (Another great Green Day song.) I don’t feel righteous, I feel tired. Unmade bed crying out to be fixed. Early OCD habits. Rethinking the entire system and structure, like I’m wont to do, like I have done. Marmalade messes on kitchen counters, baby bathwater squishing tomatoes, dirty face and chastisement. I am going to rocket launch out of this chair and hopefully say something better and different tomorrow. Maybe these words do not call to me so I am pushing all that I can.

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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